


a desperate flight to nowhere

by fallenidol_453



Category: The Dragon Prophecy - Mercedes Lackey & James Mallory
Genre: Blood and Injury, Death Wish, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Harm to Animals, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Medical Procedures, Near Death Experiences, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26887279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenidol_453/pseuds/fallenidol_453
Summary: Gunedwaen: can I please dieGunedwaen’s desperate, feral apprentices: *John Mulaney voice* NO
Kudos: 1





	a desperate flight to nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own The Dragon Prophecy trilogy. All rights to the series belong to Mercedes Lackey and James Mallory.
> 
> Edit, 10/22/2020: Fixed some paragraphs to improve word choices and overall clarity, deleted some sentences, and added more author's notes at the end.

There was no greater honor than to die beside his War Prince. The thunderous downpour from this abnormal autumn storm drenched Gunedwaen, cleaning the mud and blood from his skin and armor. His arm had been severed at the shoulder, and a savage cut to his thigh ensured that he would remain where he lay. The long span of his life was measured with just heartbeats, now. With great effort, he turns his head to look at Serenthon one last time.

War Prince Serenthon lay open-mouthed in the sludgy mud, an arrow in his eye and a slash across his throat so deep one could see bone. The pride of House Farcarinon had been extinguished like a candle between one breath and the next. He had gambled everything to thwart an unknown Darkness spoken of in prophecy and had paid the ultimate price.

Serenthon should have followed his advice and sued for peace. If not for his Lady and unborn child, then for the whole of Farcarinon. The House would have had to pay steep penalties, humiliated by all, but they would have lived and could have become a High House again with time.

But no. Serenthon had chosen to fight on, betrayed and deserted by his former allies, and Gunedwaen and the rest of Serenthon’s council and his army had followed him to the bitter end.

Soon. Gunedwaen gasped. Soon—

A flash of lightning lit up the sky, and thunder roared in his ears as he breathed his last breath.

-

Not yet his last, it seemed.

Gunedwaen awakes screaming in agony, a high keening wail that could raise the dead. He cannot move, for people are piled on top of him, and his screams are choked and muffled by multiple pairs of hands and a piece of leather shoved in his mouth. The flesh where his arm used to be sizzles and burns, the sounds and smells assaulting his senses until he chokes on it, his body wracked with shudders.

He almost weeps with relief when it stops. Never had he been more aware of his old age and mortality before, as well as his own helplessness.

But the people holding him down do not get off. Gunedwaen smells more smoke as he tries to make sense of where he is. It is dark and dim in here, and it smells of dirt underneath the smoke. Why is he in a Landbond’s hovel? Who had brought him here?

His eyesight finally adjusts to the lack of light, enough to recognize familiar faces. His own apprentices had brought him here… why?

He screams again as his thigh undergoes the same barbaric treatment, and any thoughts he had are scattered like the four winds when he falls unconscious.

-

_“Where are we going to take him?”_

_“The Sanctuary of the Star. We’ll be safe once we claim sanctuary – and they have healers. Better healers than that Landbond we took him to.”_

_“It will take sennights to get there at the pace we’re going! And what if the Sanctuary turns us away? Farcarinon is_ gone _. That alone could make them refuse us.”_

_“But we can’t rely wholly on Steadings and Landbonds! Someone will talk eventually. We don’t need any more enemies chasing us.”_

_“We have to try the Sanctuary of the Star at least once. We cannot let Master Gunedwaen fall into Caerthalien hands. If they let us in, Caerthalien can’t touch him.”_

_“And after that? He wasn’t related to Lord Serenthon. He can't rise House Farcarinon from the ashes.”_

_“If Serenthon’s Lady lives…”_

_“Have you forgotten that Lord Serenthon and Ladyholder Nataranweiya were Bondmates? She died when he did, along with their unborn child.”_

_“Enough! We will try the Sanctuary of the Star first. If they do not let us in, I have relatives on Ullilion land that could shelter us.”_

_“Assuming Caerthalien hasn’t put them to the sword already..."_

-

The next time Gunedwaen is lucid enough to be awake for longer than a minute, he’s surrounded by trees. The pain from his cauterized thigh and severed arm are constant twinges, but he’s so used to it that it’s easy to ignore them now.

He and—two, maybe three—apprentices are hidden deep inside of a forest. How long since the battle that led to Farcarinon’s erasure? How long since his stubborn apprentices dragged him from the battlefield and from the death he craved?

One male apprentice sits near him now, spooning gruel in his mouth. It’s tasteless and not very filling. He had taught his apprentices the element of spy craft, of misdirection and subterfuge. Cooking did not fall under any of those categories.

“You should… let me… die,” he rasped.

“Would you rather be ransomed? Or executed?”

If he were completely healed, Gunedwaen would have slapped him for such naïve foolishness. Instead, he uses his remaining arm to smack the spoon out of their hand. The action makes his vision swim and new pain arise, but he doesn’t care. The gruel has helped his parched throat, and his voice sounds stronger when he speaks:

“Look at me. I’m too old to be ransomed, and I gladly would have chosen to die by my own hand.”

The spoon must have been picked up because more liquid, now with the added taste of dirt, is spooned into Gunedwaen’s mouth. He lets it dribble out of his lips defiantly, not unlike a toddler misbehaving in front of their nurse. The apprentice implacably feeds him more, but he tilts Gunedwaen’s head back so he’s forced to swallow the liquid.

“We will not let you die.”

_Fools._

It’s five more spoonfuls of gruel before Gunedwaen’s able to reply with something nicer.

“Where are you taking me?”

He has no sense of where they are. They could all be in Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor for all he cares.

“The Sanctuary of the Star. Someone who can heal you…”

The weakest of chuckles escape Gunedwaen’s throat. It was a little late for that, wasn’t it?

But he doesn’t have much of a choice of where he goes.

-

Against all odds, he’s able to hobble alongside his apprentices after what feels like years. One apprentice made him a crude crutch to aid his walking, though putting weight on his wounded leg is excruciating. A horse would be easier for them, and him, but the group has none. But walking is better than being carried upon a makeshift litter like an invalid.

He has no sense of where they are, though he assumed they were all headed to the Sanctuary of the Star. He himself had never been there; protecting the tribute wagons and the new candidates headed there was not one of his duties as Swordmaster. He didn't even accompany Lord Serenthon when the latter had succeeded his father as War Prince and had gone to the Shrine within the Sanctuary to be judged by the Silver Hooves.

The pace set by the group is maddeningly slow. Hunger and exhaustion are their worst enemies, right next to half-healed injuries. But the apprentices are fueled by a desperate determination that defies everything set against them, and they make themselves and Gunedwaen push onward towards a safety he’s not sure they’ll be able to reach.

They don’t tell him, but he knows from the general mood: Caerthalien is tracking them.

Nightfall is only a small relief. It’s the same routine: cover their tracks, always. Scout out a hidden location. Build a meager fire if they dare. Forage for foodstuffs that may or may not kill them. The apprentices don’t let Gunedwaen watch when they check his wounds, though he can imagine what lies beneath the crude bandages: half healed pus-and-blood-crusted messes. What crude healings Landbonds must resort to when their masters won’t call upon a Lightborn to heal them.

The rapidly cooling weather is another enemy that stalks them. It’s not uncommon to wake up shivering, even with his apprentices crowded around him and over him like a basket of puppies. There’s only one good cloak between the four of them, and it’s mostly used as a thin covering between Gunedwaen’s body and the forest floor. Everyone’s ragged surcoats have been bunched up to make a makeshift pillow for him.

Not for the first time, Gunedwaen wishes to die in his sleep. His spirit may not be claimed by the Silver Hooves, or even the Starry Hunt, and his spirit may very well wander homeless until the stars grew cold, but he would be dead and gone from all of this.

-

He hears them whispering one night. It’s in soft-spoken and urgent undertones, but his hearing is sharp, and it stops him from thinking about the fever wracking his body.

_“There’s woundrot on his thigh.”_

Of course there is. Lovely.

_“I told you that Landbond should have stitched that cut instead of cauterizing it—”_

_“Enough! What do we do now? We have no clean bandages, and there isn’t a Steading in sight.”_

_“We have to keep going. We’re only a few days away.”_

_“It’ll be Midwinter before we reach the Sanctuary at the pace we’re going. Let’s put Master Gunedwaen back in the litter, we’ll go faster that way and he won’t tax the wound.”_

Finally, someone with common sense. Even if it’s only a small drop.

 _“What do we do with the Caerthalien_ komen _chasing us though? We can’t hide from them forever. We… we have to fight them off at some point.”_

_“Look at us! We have broken weapons and all our armor is in pieces. We’ll be killed before we can make the first stroke.”_

If they die, he dies as well. A glorious ending to this wretched tale.

-

Back into the litter he goes. The pain radiating from his thigh is so intense that he cannot block it out, and every jolt and sway has him gasping audibly as if being rolled over hot coals. He will not be surprised if his apprentices must stop to amputate his leg, though it’d be easier to just simply cut his throat.

As the pain gets worse, Gunedwaen tries to simply _will_ himself to die. He sends prayers to any god that will listen to his pleas and let him expire, but they go unanswered. His body and spirit, tempered by centuries of countless battles, are simply too strong to relinquish his desperate soul.

-

The swaying of the litter is more jarring than normal as his apprentices move faster.

The hounds of Caerthalien must be getting closer.

-

It’s the middle of the night when the Caerthalien _komen_ strike.

He can only watch helplessly as his apprentices are cut down in front of him, too weak from cold and hunger to raise their broken blades and fight back.

Gunedwaen expects to die.

But he’s taken alive instead.

-

He barely remembers the return trip.

His leg is lame, making it nearly impossible to walk. His fever burns his body like a hot, baleful fire. The chilly wind cuts through his rags and skin like an icy knife.

After a day of barely covering a league, someone finally straps him to a horse like a pathetic sack of belongings and they all continue onward.

The gods do not let him die.

-

Gunedwaen’s world is brightly lit with candles, and his senses are assaulted by the heavenly scents of food. Slowly his shaky vision steadies and he comes back to himself. He is, amazingly, standing under his own power. He is also surrounded by at least half a dozen _komen_.

He’s in a grand hall filled with courtiers. Banners of green and gold with three gold stars line the walls.

House Caerthalien, the greatest of House Farcarinon’s betrayers.

Before him, sitting at a grand table atop a dais, is War Prince Bolecthindial of Caerthalien, his wife, and all their children and grandchildren.

Bolecthindial, once Serenthon’s truest friend.

“So, we’ve caught Farcarinon’s lone wolf at last.”

The tinkling laughter of everyone around him is harsh and mocking like a cloud of noxious insects.

“A lone wolf who served Farcarinon until its dying breath instead of turning traitor.”

The words are out of Gunedwaen’s mouth before he can stop himself. Someone slaps him. He then hears someone loudly shouting at the table—Prince Domcariel, probably. Bolecthindial’s third son was always a hotheaded fool who took no insult toward Caerthalien.

Bolecthindial’s cool voice cuts through Domcariel’s rabid incoherence.

“House Farcarinon has been erased. Your former allies are dead or ransomed to other Houses. You, Gunedwaen Swordmaster, are the last living remnant of Farcarinon.”

“Then let me die as Farcarinon instead of a Caerthalien supplicant.”

More tinkling laughter. Bolecthindiel has the audacity to chuckle with them. Gunedwaen thinks he hears his rival Elrinionion laugh the loudest.

“Look at you, old man. Look at where you are,” Bolecthindial replies. “You do not have much choice in deciding your fate.”

 _Then give me a sword and I will decide my fate in a Challenge Circle,_ Gunedwaen thinks viciously.

If he were fully healed, he could fight them all despite his old age. But Bolecthindial is right. He does not have much choice.

Bolecthindial raises his hand and gestures toward someone unseen. A Lightborn steps away from the crowd and walks toward Gunedwaen with silent footfalls. Their dark green robes are resplendent in the candlelight in a way no Lightborn robe should be, and a small kernel of apprehension forms in Gunedwaen’s gut. The Lightborn eventually comes to a stop barely an arm’s length away from him. His expression is schooled to a calm blankness, but there is no mistaking the cold and mocking gaze in his black eyes.

Ivrulion Lightbrother, Chief Lightbrother of House Caerthalien and Bolecthindial’s second son. Excluded from succession and serving his own family, yet still a Prince of the Line Direct. How ironic.

“You will not die as Farcarinon. You will serve as Caerthalien’s vassal until the end of your days,” Bolecthindial says. “Now kneel.”

Gunedwaen cannot. He can stand, albeit painfully, but his leg has gone lame from the rotting cut. One of the _komen_ behind him kicks his knee, and he topples to the ground like a rag doll.

He expects Bolecthindial to begin asking the questions that will make him swear fealty.

He is not prepared for the onslaught of magic that bears down upon him like a landslide.

Ivrulion binds him with layers upon layers of spellwork that force loyalty and fealty and binds him to Caerthalien’s boundaries. He will never be able to leave or turn traitor against them no matter what.

He is Caerthalien until he dies.

Bolecthindial must have wanted this, the bastard. To have someone—anyone—of House Farcarinon under his heel for the rest of their days, as a constant reminder of who was the victor in Farcarinon’s erasure.

Ivrulion steps back, a faint smile upon his lips. Gunedwaen is shaking with exhaustion and pain, but at least he did not give them the pleasure of hearing him scream. There is rage, too, but he cannot unleash it like a cruel beast.

“I have a gift for Caerthalien’s newest vassal,” Bolecthindial announced. “Bring it forward.”

A loud, pained yelp echoes around the hall, followed by raucous laughter.

_“A mad dog for a mad wolf!”_

A hikuliasa is dragged and pushed forward by a servant. A female runt, drooling with fear, her tail tucked between her unsteady legs. She cannot walk properly, and Gunedwaen sees that one of her paws is twisted and lame. Such a dog would have been drowned a long time ago.

More laughter follows as the dog is given one final shove and lands on top of him. She shrieks from fear or pain, and he wraps his arm around her to keep her from thrashing about. Her loud whimpering fills his ears and she scratches at him pathetically, but he doesn’t let go of her.

The laughter does not stop.

-

He is driven out of the castel with the hikuliasa and into the forests. A ramshackle hut is what awaits him in a small clearing. The walls are solid and still standing, but the roof is dangerously close to caving in. A fitting house for Farcarinon’s mad wolf and his mad hound.

Bolecthindial means for him to die out here.

But for all Gunedwaen’s previous yearnings for death, he finds that he doesn’t want to die yet. Just to spite his new lord.

He had survived being borne from the battlefield without his consent and the futile journey towards a safety that never was.

He could survive this too.

-

He names his new companion Striker, after she had lashed out like a whip and bit his hand one cold night for accidentally touching her deformed paw.

He wins her trust eventually, in between learning the twisted tangle of paths in the greenwood and trying to make his hut livable. Spite is a wonderful motivator for someone learning to get by with only one arm and one working leg.

Striker isn’t a good hunting dog—hikuliasas were sight hounds, long and lean, meant to flush out game for the larger and stronger hunting hounds or run down speedy prey—but she provides him enough entertainment to make him forget his pain for a little while.

-

The Caerthalien knights and lords think it is amusing to seek him out, to hunt for him like a rare animal.

There’s an implicit and unspoken order from War Prince Bolecthindial to not harm him, but that doesn’t stop the rabble from coming upon him and circling around him on their horses like a prized kill, congratulating themselves for a good “hunt”.

It’s more annoying than funny. _Very_ annoying. Striker hates it too; he must constantly hold her back, with her teeth bared in a snarl, from lunging at their unwanted guests.

His disused skills as a Swordmaster, of subterfuge and misdirection, come in handy now. Oh, he would _never_ hurt the knights or their animals enough to draw Bolecthindial’s attention and bring his wrath upon him, but… he did not serve as Swordmaster to House Farcarinon for centuries without picking up _some_ tricks.

He hurts their pride, makes them frustrated that they can’t find their “quarry.” He makes them get lost and move in circles all day, or have their precious dogs lose his scent on purpose.

If he had a weapon, he would have used it to provoke minor hurts: a stone to the backside, maybe hitting the arm or back too. He could tie back tree branches and have them smack anyone who touches them. But he can’t do that. Instead, he savors their frustrations like a rare bottle of wine while hiding in plain sight.

This was all in the name of leaving him alone, but he can’t deny it’s amusing for a spell.

The game grows old eventually, and after a turn of the Wheel he no longer hears them prowling the woods. Sweet Pelashia, it had taken them long enough.

-

Years pass. Striker is no longer a youthful lady; she is more content to lay by his fire and warm her old and arthritic bones with him than go chase birds outside.

His whispered yearnings for death return. Brought on by isolation or no contact with people, he does not know. Maybe it’s the encroaching despair that he really _will_ die as Caerthalien’s supplicant and not as Farcarinon. But he’s able to fight that darkness for a little while, just to see what the new day brings. What the new turn of the Wheel brings.

Maybe he cannot bear to leave Striker behind alone.

But the temptation is there, always after the first snowfall hits the land. He is tempted to let the fire in his hearth burn out for the final time and go lay out in the snow.

Wasn’t freezing said to be the gentlest of deaths? Gentler than the end of a sword blade, or under a destrier’s steel-shod hooves?

His body would never be discovered. He would decay and let the animals feast upon him, to scatter his bones and let the earth overtake them until there wasn’t a trace of him left.

But he hesitates every time. He puts another chunk of wood into the flames.

And he waits. And lives another day.

For whom, he does not know.

**Author's Note:**

> The birth order of Bolecthindial's sons is approximate, taken from small hints placed in the narrative of Crown of Vengeance and from Prince Runacarendular's POV sections in the same novel.
> 
> Elrinionion is Swordmaster to House Caerthalien. While he and Gunedwaen are not RIVALS per say (they never interact in the books), I've always had this headcanon that the Swordmasters of the Hundred Houses all talk shit about each other behind the scenes and that they all insult each others' methods of spycraft/intelligence gathering/spy selection.
> 
> Komen are essentially knights, though I don't remember if it's short for komentaiia, which is the Elvish description for Commanders in the Dragon Prophecy sequel trilogy The Obsidian Mountain. I mean, the meanings of words CAN change after 10,000 years.
> 
> Hikuliasa is a dog breed found in the books; I don't recall clearly if they ARE based on breeds like the greyhound or whippet, but it's the first thing that came to my mind when writing.


End file.
